


Every Time We Touch

by avxry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Did I Mention Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, More Fluff, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avxry/pseuds/avxry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't seem to stop making physical contact with John. Not that he minds. At all. He actually quite likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Time We Touch

The first time Sherlock touches John unnecessarily, it hadn't seemed like much of a big deal. John was typing up the most recent case on his blog when Sherlock came looming over him, placing a hand on his left shoulder, his head hovering right above the other. He was so close that his dark curls brushed John's cheek. John felt himself flush.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, seemingly annoyed, but a little smile on his face indicated fondness. "You're calling it 'A Mystery of Britain'? That's ridiculous."

John gave Sherlock as much of a pointed look he could while the detective was so close to him. "Mycroft helped considerably, which implies the British government, so yes, Britain."

Sherlock sighed, his breath flitting over John's cheek lightly, but said no more on the subject. John pursed his lips, wondered why Sherlock had gotten so close, shook his head, went back to his blog, and forgot about it.

 

\---

 

Sherlock stood in front of his make-shift bulletin board, where he tracked the whereabouts of a particularly difficult suspect, who "has to be the murderer, he has to be! All signs point to him! Obviously!"

John was not nearly as troubled about this case as Sherlock was. It was a minor case that had proved to be more difficult than expected, but John had faith that Sherlock would sort it out soon enough. He, of course, offered his opinion when asked, but Sherlock hadn't asked, so he was a background figure. He didn't mind so much.

He walked over and stood beside Sherlock, tea in his right hand, trying to make sense of the mess of pictures and strings and push pins, with no luck, unfortunately. Only Sherlock would be able to understand such a mess -- but it looked as if he wasn't doing so well with it either. John pursed his lips, furrowed his eyebrows and studied the lines closely, but finding nothing. He was not Sherlock Holmes by any means.

Unexpectedly, an arm snaked its way around his waist, hand resting comfortably on his hip. John was so startled that he almost dropped his tea. He looked to his left at Sherlock with wide eyes, eyebrows raised. The man showed no reaction whatsoever, still studying the board.

He felt a question, maybe a protest, rise up in his chest, but before it reached his throat, it turned into something warmer, retreating back down to the tips of his toes, filling him inside. His open-jawed mouth twisted into a smile as he gently wrapped his left arm around Sherlock's waist.

He didn't even question it when a few minutes later, Sherlock rested his head on the side of his own.

 

\---

 

"John! Get up, we have a case!"

Sherlock's booming voice echoed through the flat somehow, waking John even from downstairs. It was still early, too early for John to be happy about a case. He groaned, rising from his peaceful slumber and walking to the bathroom to shower and get dressed. Sherlock could wait for that, at least.

The shower woke him up further, relieving his eyes from the heavy weight of sleep so he could hold them open properly. He brushed his teeth quickly and pulled on a pair of jeans and a button up shirt, hurriedly tying his shoes.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but somehow John knew he was still there. He was proven right when Sherlock came running out into the sitting room from his bedroom, an excited look on his face. John grinned at the sight of it.

"Come on, John!" he exclaimed, then snatched up John's hand in his own, tugging him down the stairs and out into the chilly morning air, but John didn't feel the cold, at the fault of the warmth radiating from Sherlock's hand.

Somehow their fingers intertwined, but neither minded, really.

Sherlock described the case in the cab, glee in his eyes, their hands still latched onto each other between them. John didn't say much, just smiled at his best friend and squeezed his hand when appropriate.

The cab pulled up to the crime scene, and as they got out of the car on separate sides, their hands reluctantly slid out of each other's grasp.

 

\---

 

Sherlock practically danced around the crime scene. John had to remind him several times that such things were inappropriate in front of a dead body.

"Well, he doesn't care!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at the man lying dead on the floor of the shop.

John meant to keep a straight face; really, he did. But Sherlock's face when he retorted was just too funny. He let a laugh bubble up from his chest, earning him a glare from DI Lestrade, hands on his hips. He wasn't nearly at tolerant of Sherlock as John was. Maybe John had just grown accustomed to it.

"Sherlock," John said between little giggles. The man didn't stop, just grinning and making remarks like "brilliant!" John shook his head. "Sherlock! Stop it! You can't be so happy in a crime scene, even if the dead bloke doesn't notice it!"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, staring at something that probably was only in his mind. "Oh," he breathed. John knew immediately that he had just had some ingenious revelation. "Oh, yes! Yes, of course! John, you are brilliant, yes!"

Before John could even asked what he had done that was so bloody brilliant, Sherlock grabbed John's face and kissed him twice, on each cheek, then grabbed his hand and took off for some unknown destination which would undoubtedly hold the key to the investigation.

Greg Lestrade was left in the dust, contemplating when exactly they had become a _thing_ like that. Then, with a shrug, he realized that really, they had always been.

 

\---

 

Sherlock had been unusually frustrating. He was, of course, always frustrating, but more so today. He refused to eat anything John fixed him, refused to drink the tea, refused to rest his overworked mind, refused to even move from the spot he had been occupying for hours -- basically refused to acknowledge John's existence, and ultimately, John knew he should have just shrugged it off, but it was hurtful.

He wasn't sure when he began caring so much about Sherlock's attention.

Finally, late at night, he'd had it.

"Alright, listen," he said, pointing a finger down at Sherlock, who still wasn't looking at him. "You've been ignoring me all day. You _need_ to eat, you _need_ to sleep, you _need_ to stay hydrated, or the mind that you treasure so much won't work right. But if you think you're just so above humanity that you don't even need to keep your body functioning, then on your head be it!"

John sighed and rubbed his eyes, knowing that Sherlock wasn't going to answer. He let his hand drop. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock."

He didn't expect a reply. He didn't get one.

He changed out of his clothes and put on a T-shirt, wearing only that and his boxers. With another irritated shake of his head, he climbed into bed and promptly fell asleep.

A few hours later, John still fast asleep, Sherlock solved the case. It had been obvious, really, so obvious, why hadn't he gotten it before, John probably could have helped with it, where was John anyway? His eyes flicked to the clock and realized that he was probably asleep by now. It was early morning.

He also deduced that in fact, John _had_ tried to help. Sherlock sighed and stood, stretching out his legs. Realizing just how thirsty he was, he got a glass of water, and though he knew John would want him to eat something, he just couldn't bring himself to be hungry.

He set the glass in the sink and started for his bedroom when he stopped. His bed looked dreadfully empty.

Sherlock went up to John's room then, quietly up the stairs and stopped at his bed, kicking off his shoes. John was facing the opposite direction on the far end of the bed. _How convenient_.

Sherlock hung his suit jacket on the inside doorknob and lifted the soft duvet, sliding in underneath it and moving closer to John. He tentatively draped an arm around John's middle and interlocked his fingers with John's, who hand had been lying palm-up beside his chest.

Sherlock fell asleep.

Later that morning, when John woke up, he felt warm -- abnormally warm. After a moment of confusion, he turned his head to find that Sherlock had come up in the middle of the night. He smiled gently at the man's sleeping form.

He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand and simply went back to sleep.

 

\---

 

Gradually the year had come back around to the Christmas season, as it did every year, despite Sherlock's distaste for such a ludicrous holiday. All the cheer and happiness and _family_ \-- he almost shuddered at the thought of Christmas with his family.

Christmas with John, though -- bearable. Actually, probably more than bearable. Potentially enjoyable.

Sherlock found that he was right, it was enjoyable with John. Unfortunately, there were no murders ("What's wrong with all the criminals? Do they think it gets _more_ illegal at Christmas?"), but it was surprisingly okay.

John had dragged Sherlock out to Tesco to help with the shopping. He wanted to cook a good meal for Christmas dinner, though it would only be be the two of them. Sherlock grudgingly went, though he would never admit that it was, in fact, just a bit fun. He got to deduce random shoppers and make John laugh and also make John scold him but still with an impressed glimmer in his eyes, and impressing John was always good.

They had only gotten a few things (a turkey, some wine, some eggnog for John, a few vegetables, other small things) which they carried with ease. They made their ways up the stairs to their flat.

Sherlock, of course, had noticed the little hanging plastic plant on the frame of the door. He huffed a small chuckle.

The pair finally reached the top of the stairs, but before John could walk inside, Sherlock stopped him.

"John," he said quietly, getting the other man's attention.

John furrowed his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

Sherlock carefully set the bag he had been carrying (the wine and eggnog, plus a couple spices) right inside the door. Then, maintaining eye contact with John, delicately removed John's bag (the turkey and vegetables) from his fingers, placing it beside his own.

A small smile twitched at the corners of his lips as he winded one arm around John's waist and pulled him closer. Then, ever so slightly, he let his lips hover just about John's before connecting them gingerly.

John's brain went into overdrive. He and Sherlock had, of course, been closer recently, but nothing like this, nothing so personal. Before he even had time to properly react, Sherlock had pulled away, but only a few centimeters.

It seemed that John was incapable of coherent thought, the ghost of Sherlock's lips still lingering on his own. All he could do was stare up at Sherlock with wide eyes and somehow even more adoration than ever before. 

Sherlock smiled lightly. His voice was soft and low when he said, "Mrs. Hudson put up the mistletoe." His deep voice reverberated through his own chest and into John's.

A gentle smile still on his face, Sherlock picked up the bags again and carried them into the kitchen.

John wondered why it took so long for him to realize what he wanted.

 

\---

 

John had visited Harry a few days after Christmas. He had, unfortunately, not acted on any of the impulses he had to scoop Sherlock up in his arms and kiss him until the wine wore off, only to drink more and do it all again.

He and Harry had never gotten along quite as well as they did for the three days that he visited. She seemed to be getting better, bit by bit. He was proud of her. She was even trying to prove herself to Clara, which he was happy about. They really were good for each other.

But he realized that no matter how happy he was to be happy around his sister, he would always be happier walking up the stairs of 221B Baker Street to greet Sherlock. Unsurprisingly, he had missed the Consulting Detective, very much so.

Apparently, Sherlock had missed him too.

He had barely gotten through the door and released grip of his suitcase when Sherlock came bounding out of the kitchen with a shout ("John! You're home!") and latched onto him, much like a leech, holding him in a tight hug.

John let out a laugh and hugged Sherlock back with as much force as exerted by the other man. They both had their eyes closed, breathing in the scent of each other once again. John had kissed Sherlock's cheek without even thinking about it, but Sherlock seemed to either not notice or not mind.

After a full minute and 42 seconds, John tried to pull away to look at Sherlock, but the man in question was still clutching him tightly.

"Sherlock?" he asked with a chuckle, trying to pry the taller man off him, having no luck. "You okay?"

Sherlock squeezed him again, briefly, and mumbled into his shoulder, "You shouldn't leave."

John's heart lurched with worry, but a quick examination of the flat told him that nothing serious had happened (he also told Lestrade to look after him while he was gone, just in case).

Another strangled chuckle came from John as Sherlock pulled away. John said with a nod, "Alright, alright, Sherlock. You can come next time, okay?"

Sherlock nodded once, then awkwardly smiled down at John. John smiled back softly. His eyes flickered down to Sherlock's lips once before his face hardened.

"Oh, fuck this."

He was so tired of waiting, so tired of wanting, so tired of not claiming Sherlock. He spun the two of them around and shoved Sherlock back into the wall before crashing their lips together, almost painfully, but even if it hurt, they wouldn't have cared. Sherlock seemed surprised as first, but then his brain kicked into gear and grasped at John's soft jumper beneath his coat, wrapped his arms around John's middle, pulling him somehow even closer than before.

John's hands roamed all over Sherlock's chest, then moving to his back to feel around more there, finally make their way to his soft, curly hair. Their lips move in synchronicity, still crushed against each other, their breathing ragged. John stuck his tongue out to slowly drag it along Sherlock's top lip. Sherlock moaned at the contact and grabbed a fistful of John's jumper.

John made sure to trace every inch of Sherlock's mouth with his tongue before finally attacking his tongue as well. He felt Sherlock shiver beneath his hands and couldn't help but smile and moan at the same time, making sure to not break the kiss. Sherlock immediately reacted and they were in a battle of strength, their mouths the weapons that never ran out of ammunition.

Gradually, their lips and tongues and hands slowed down, resulting in soft, languid kisses on jawline and necks and gentle squeezes from long arms and shorter arms and then they turned into hugs until finally John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, holding him close.

Nothing was said for a long time. Nothing needed to be. All was quiet. John's suitcase lay forgotten behind them. He wouldn't be needing it for a long while.


End file.
